Arthur and Francis Go to Couple's Therapy!
by browsofglory
Summary: Francis and Arthur fight a lot, and Francis thinks it's harming their relationship. He proposes a solution: couple's therapy! Their counselor, Emma, tells them to make outrageous compromises for their partner, and chaos naturally ensues! FrUK/UKFr. Part of a fic exchange with EllaAwkward.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. It belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya and any and all other respective owners. As well, I do not own any of the TV shows, businesses, et cetera mentioned in this story.  
**

 **Before I begin, I would like to say that I'm not a councelor and I have no idea how couple's therapy works. If you're here for accuracy, this is not the place you'll find that.**

 **In this fic, Emma Vermuelen is Belgium!**

* * *

 _ **Three Weeks Before Session One  
Tuesday, March 28, 2017, 10:48 PM**_

Francis and Arthur lie on opposite sides of their bed. Part of Francis wants to close the gap and hold Arthur, but another part of him is angry at Arthur, and he knows that Arthur is _definitely_ still angry with him. Francis knows that he loves Arthur, and he's pretty sure that Arthur loves him (even if he seems to have a pretty difficult time showing it), but the amount of fighting they do is excessive and unnecessary. Francis wants to fix that, but he knows that they won't be able to fix it themselves.

He stares absently at the ceiling of their flat (it's a popcorn ceiling, which Francis hates and desperately wanted redone), searching his mind for options. He could always take Arthur out for a fancy dinner or something, maybe a romantic walk in the park and then home for some, ahem, activities, but he knows that such things won't fix the problem. Francis sighs and shifts a little. He can tell that Arthur can't sleep either from the lack of gentle snores, and so the silence stretches out between them. Both of them are holding their breaths, waiting for a future that neither of them know how to find.

Then an idea strikes Francis. Elizabeta and Roderich had been going through a rough patch recently (or so he heard from Alfred, who heard from Matthew, who heard from Gilbert, who heard from Antonio, who heard from Lovino, who heard from Feliciano), and instead of letting it simmer, they went to a couple's counselor. According to Matthew, it worked.

"You're-a-piece-a!" Francis exclaims, forgetting the English word to express what he's thinking. He furrows his eyebrows as he attempts to remember it. "Your-faecal? You-keep-her?"

Arthur, who had been holding in his laughter, snorts and then dissolves into harsh snickers from where he lies facing away from Francis. He's accustomed to this sort of thing by now. "Eureka, Francis, you dimwit."

"Right, euh, eur-ee-ka," Francis sounds it out slowly. "Anyways, I figured out how we can fix this."

Arthur's giggles stop. "Fix what?"

"Us."

There's a heavy silence as Arthur mulls this over, and then he turns to look at Francis, his gaze hooded. "Fix…us?"

Francis nods solemnly. Arthur's expression steels, but he gestures for Francis to continue.

"We should go to couple's therapy."

In an instant, irritation is ablaze in Arthur's eyes. "Excuse me, what?"

"Couple's therapy," Francis repeats matter-of-factly. "You do know what that is, right?'

"Of course! It's just… I don't think we're _that_ bad."

"Arthur, we never agree on anything. All of our friends seem to think that we hate each other. I know that we don't, but… Can we at least try?"

A frown tugs at Arthur's lips. "I don't know… That type of thing is pretty expensive, and considering how much the rent is for this place, I'm not sure if it's a good idea. Plus, it doesn't actually work. My councillor back in high school didn't work."

"Arthur, I'm willing to do anything to save this relationship. I can put some of my savings in if it makes you feel better?"

Arthur contemplates it for a moment.

"Ugh, fine," he grumbles. "But I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' when it doesn't work out."

Francis smiles and cups Arthur's face in his hands (something he knows Arthur hates. He does it mostly to annoy him), planting a kiss on his forehead. "But of course, _mon chou."_

"I am not a cabbage!"

* * *

 _ **Session One  
Saturday, April 15, 2017, 1:32 PM**_

"Hello!" the couple's therapist Francis found, who has just opened the door to the office, greets cheerfully. "I'm Emma Vermeulen, we talked on the phone?"

They're in a room with huge windows at one end that overlook the Thames. The building is on the outskirts of London, and is mostly surrounded by copy-paste red brick buildings with black rooves that have certainly seen better days. The inside of the office is rather pleasant; it's spacious, and the white walls make the room seem brighter while the wooden table, desk and shelves make it feel homey. There are splashes of colour throughout the room; in a picture frame one might expect to find on an office desk; in the paintings of various landscapes and cityscapes (the latter look a lot like Brussels); and in typical health-and-wellness posters one might find in this sort of environment. Emma Vermeulen closes the door behind her and Arthur stands up stiffly, followed more reluctantly by Francis, who had just gotten comfortable in his chair.

Francis puts on his best smile. "Yes! Though I think that you are much more beautiful in person. The photo on the website hardly does you justice."

He winks and Arthur, standing beside him, swats at his arm. "Francis, you bloody frog! For God's sake, keep your slimy hands to yourself! If I didn't know any better, I would think I was the third wheel at some sort of Internet dating meetup."

Emma giggles as Francis huffs and crosses his arms. Arthur sticks out his hand rather formally in the awkward aftermath of his comment.

"Arthur Kirkland," he says. Emma takes his hand and shakes it firmly. "And this," he gestures to Francis, "is my boyfriend, Francis Bonnefoy."

Francis' sour expression fades as soon as it came; it seems he is incapable of being in a bad mood for long. His face lights up once more with a radiant grin, and he lifts her hand and kisses it with a flourish that only he could achieve. Arthur feels the tips of his ears burn in embarrassment, but he says nothing. Francis is such a show-off sometimes. It's rather annoying.

 _"Enchanté,"_ Francis smiles, and Emma regards him with a look of curiosity. Arthur, meanwhile, rolls his eyes at the use of French, even if it _is_ something that he understands.

 _"Parlez-vous français?"_ she asks Francis. "Do you speak French?"is another phrase Arthur can understand (he had to use _"parlez-vous anglais?"_ quite a lot on his exchange to France in university), but it only makes his frown more extreme.

 _"Oui, je suis Français. Et vous?"_ Arthur translates in his head, "Yes, I am French. And you?"

 _"Belge,"_ she answers, and Arthur has to rack his brain for the translation. She said she was Belgian, he realises, but then they start speaking to each other in rapid-fire French that Arthur can't keep up with, no matter how hard he tries. It's not as if he took four years of the damn froggy language in school!

Arthur clears his throat pointedly, and Francis regards him with a sort of smug, sheepish look in his eye. He says something else that sounds suspiciously to Arthur like "he can't speak French," and Emma laughs a little. Arthur's brows knit together in irritation.

"Have a seat," Emma smiles, and sits down in her own chair behind her large mahogany desk. Arthur collapses while Francis lowers himself down more slowly, smoothing his pants of any possible wrinkles before crossing his legs daintily. Heaven forbid he look remotely dishevelled.

There is an awkward silence for a moment as Emma scribbles on a notepad before she speaks. "So, what seems to be the problem?"

Arthur sighs. It seems to him that Francis thinks that _everything_ is a problem.

"Well…" he begins, before Francis cuts him off.

"We can't seem to agree on anything. Ever," he says bluntly, his tone dry.

Emma writes on her notepad. "Can you give me an example?"

"Er…the other day, we got into a heated argument about who's more likely to die in an apocalypse," Arthur can feel heat rising in his cheeks out of shame. He fervently curses his complexion.

"It's Arthur, by the way," Francis adds, waving his hand about in big gestures that make sense to him but don't make sense to anyone else. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Francis, you can't survive without wine or the fifty blooming hair products you have. Remember when we went camping with Matthew and Alfred and you almost cried because you could only bring one shampoo and one conditioner? You're like the irrelevant extra character at the beginning of the movie that dies before anything's even happened."

"Excuse you! I am the main character!" Francis exclaims dramatically. "I am the beautiful, attractive lead! I am the one who kills all of the attackers while their hair blows elegantly behind them in the wind! I am-"

"Oh, belt it, Frog, you wouldn't survive two seconds," Arthur scowls, and then his expression morphs into a sneer. "But I, on the other hand…"

"You couldn't survive! You'd die without tea! You _embroider,_ for God's sake, Arthur! You're a recluse! You watch far too much Doctor Who to be healthy, and it isn't a good show! You're as stubborn as a goat and as hot-headed as a lion!" their voices grow louder and louder as the fight grows to be more heated.

"Yeah, well, you're too much of a romantic! You try to snog everything that moves, Francis! You watch some _terrible_ soap operas, and I'm _positive_ that all of them are worse than Doctor Who! They all follow the exact same plot! And, I don't know if you've noticed, but you're just as stubborn, it's just that you're in denial!"

Emma watches them with wide eyes. Arthur is jabbing his finger at Francis, while Francis is glaring at Arthur. She has seen some pretty bad cases, far worse than this, but most of the time, they can find _something_ that they like about each other. This is just tearing the other down for each thing that they do. She is scribbling madly at her notepad and wondering why the _hell_ she took this job. It's far too stressful.

"That is _enough,_ Mr. Kirkland, Mr. Bonnefoy," she tries to say it gently, but it comes out as more of a harsh snap.

Arthur and Francis look at her and fall silent like children being scolded by their mother.

"Sorry," Arthur mumbles, in the name of British politeness.

"See?" Francis sighs sadly after a moment. "We can't agree on anything."

"I _do_ see that," Emma frowns. "You both seem to have many things that you don't like about each other."

Arthur and Francis nod numbly. Arthur still feels anger boil in his chest, and Francis is disheartened, to say the least; but they agreed that they would try to fix this, so they await what Emma is going to say patiently.

Finally, Emma hands them each a piece of paper and a pencil. "Usually I wouldn't do this, but I think you're a fairly rare case. You're both too stubborn to give in to anything the other says, so I think you need to make sacrifices for the benefit of your partner."

Francis raises an eyebrow, glancing down at the paper in his hand.

 _I am not that bad, am I?_ he wonders. He prides himself in being an amazing lover in all respects.

"So," Emma finishes, "I'm going to get both of you to write a list of things that annoy you about your partner on that piece of paper. Don't show each other. Once you're done, just hand it to me. You have five minutes," she glances at the clock. "Start…now."

Arthur smirks and begins to write, quickly and continuously. Francis does, too, but takes his time and bites his lip in concentration (a habit that Arthur thinks is terrible, so he writes it on his paper).

After some time of relative silence, filled only by the insistent scratching of pens on paper, Emma announces that it's been five minutes and tells them to stop writing.

Arthur finishes his sentence, his eyebrows scrunched together in frustration, while Francis hands his list to her. Arthur gives his in, too, after a few more seconds of writing. Emma reads them over. She gawks at the sheer length of them, letting a small gasp of astonishment.

Arthur's covers everything from Francis' stubble to his nervous habits to his likes and dislikes, and Francis' is freakishly similar.  
 _  
_"Right," Emma drags out the word, setting the lists down on her desk, above her notes. "I want to try something. Every week when you come in, I'm going to give you a new thing that you have to do. This week, I'm going to start with something easy. Mister Kirkland, you have to watch what Mister Bonnefoy wants once."

Francis smirks at Arthur; an evil, devilish smirk. Arthur huffs and crosses his arms, grumbling to himself. This will be a long week if he has to watch all of those telenovelas and awful reality shows and everything that Francis seems to enjoy.

"And Mr. Bonnefoy, you seem to dislike watching what Mr. Kirkland does, so you have to watch what he wants once, too."

Francis' smile falls and his cheeks puff out in a pout. It's Arthur's turn to smirk at him.

"Check in next week. We'll add something else then."

Arthur and Francis stand up, both still with a rather gloomy looks on their faces.

 _I'm screwed,_ Francis thinks.

He's going to have to go to Hogwarts or Middle Earth or the TARDIS or something, each universe more boring and hellishly _nerdy_ than the last. He's not going to be able to survive if it keeps going on like this. Maybe this was a bad idea after all…

"Thank you," Arthur inclines his head once curtly and makes his way to the door.

 _"Merci,"_ Francis smiles, but it's a bit forced, like a flickering lightbulb or the sun on a cloudy day.

"My pleasure. See you next week!" Emma waves cheerily and they shuffle into the hallway.

Francis waves back and they're off. Arthur pulls the door shut behind them, and they stand in a hallway made up of cinderblocks painted a more yellow-y shade of white than the colour that had been in Emma's room. The carpet is a sort of bluish-grey, speckled with red and green, and Francis thinks it looks like it's straight out of the '80s. Arthur spots a sign behind them that says "be kind to your mind" and has a picture of a woman, smiling as she reads on a windowsill.

"I'm going to have so much fun with this," he grins when he looks back, throwing as much deranged anticipation into his expression as he can. Francis visibly pales.

"If you pick one of those really long movies you like, I get to pick multiple shows that add up to the same amount of time."

Arthur doesn't seem deterred. "Deal."

* * *

 _ **Week One  
Sunday, April 16, 2017, 7:28 PM**_

"Francis!"

 _"No!"_

"You promised!"

"I don't want to!"

"We can even watch an episode with David Tennant if you want!"

"I don't know who that is!"

"My God, Francis! We've been through this! The one with spiky hair."

"Oh, you mean the cute one."

"No, I don't– ugh."

Arthur is sure everyone in the entire building can hear their yelling, and he's positive that they're all rolling their eyes at his and Francis' argument. This time, even _he_ thinks it's dumb, and he's usually the one doing most of the fighting. They had a deal! Francis was supposed to watch something Arthur wants him to, and Arthur's supposed to watch something Francis wants him to. That's how this was supposed to go. However, it seems the git can't accept that. Arthur doesn't have the time to be watching very much telly during the week, so they have to watch Arthur's longer show now. It's not _his_ fault he has a lot of paperwork! They put it off all day, but now they have to face it. Francis is just in denial.

"I'll do it if we watch mine first," Francis announces, arms crossed.

"No! Yours can be spaced out over the week! Mine _can't!"_

Francis sticks his nose in the air like a pompous cat. "I'm not doing it, then."

"We had a deal, Francis!"

"Too bad."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Why am I dating you?"

"You love me, _cher."_

"I am _seriously_ reconsidering that."

"Oh, come now," Francis tuts, draping his arms over Arthur's shoulders. Arthur feels that it's extremely patronising, so he shrugs it off. "Just because I don't want to watch Doctor Where or whatever?"

"Doctor _Who,"_ Arthur grumbles.

"Doctor Who."

"And this was _your_ idea! You were the one who wanted to go to couple's therapy."

Francis raises his eyebrows. "But I don't want to watch Doctor How!"

"Doctor _Who,_ Francis!"

"Doctor Who!"

"Fine!" Arthur huffs before realising that he's about to give in and he stops himself. "Wait, no! We're watching it whether you like it or not!"

"Arthur!" Francis whines, and honestly, Arthur has had enough. "Can't we watch that show with the guy with those _killer_ cheekbones? Benadryl Cucumber or whatever?"

"Sherlock? No, because I know you're going to drool over Benedict bloody Cumberbatch the whole sodding time!"

Francis groans loudly and collapses against the back of the couch, and Arthur glares intensely at him, because frankly, the man is a huge blooming hypocrite and it's infuriating. It takes him a while, but Francis finally looks back at Arthur.

"Fine. I'll watch Doctor What–"

"Doctor. _Who,"_ Arthur grits out, his patience gone. He's sure Francis is doing it just to annoy him at this point.

"–if it's the one with that cute blond girl and the Doctor Who with spiky hair. They're so good together…"

"He's not called Doctor Who! It's just 'the Doctor'!" Arthur huffs, and then he realises Francis does not and never will care. "Oh, never mind." he sighs, defeated. "Fine."

"Great!" Francis grins, clapping his hands together. "I'll make popcorn."

"I thought you hated popcorn," Arthur deadpans. He had to listen to an hour-long rant last week about how fake Francis thinks American food is and how it's so bad for you and whatever. He's sure he fell asleep at least twice because it was so boring.

"Oh, I do! It's a disgrace!" Francis replies quickly, a mischievous glint in his eye. "But as I understand it, this is a day for doing things that I hate!"

Arthur scowls at him as he gets up off the couch and sashays to the kitchen, humming a tune Arthur is _sure_ he's heard somewhere before. Arthur, meanwhile, sets to work turning on the telly and inserting the disk for season two of New Who into the DVD player. He flips through the episodes for one that is fairly benign so that Francis won't complain the entire time, but that is irritating enough that Francis won't enjoy himself. He can hear the sound of popping in the background from Francis' popcorn, and the (absolutely delicious, if Arthur's being completely honest) aroma of it wafts from the kitchen. Arthur settles upon _The Christmas Invasion_ because _he_ doesn't particularly like that episode and he's a Whovian, so Francis is bound to dislike it. He needs this to be as torturous as possible without going overboard, if only because Francis gave him such a hard time before.

As it's starting and the BBC logo comes onto the TV screen, Francis renters the room with a large bowl of popcorn and a bit of a scowl on his face. He sets the bowl down on the coffee table and plops onto the couch beside Arthur, draping his arm over the back like he owns the place. Arthur shoots him a look, but Francis just gives him the "what, me?" shrug.

As soon as the show begins, Francis is nagging Arthur. Every single time a character is introduced, he asks who they are. He asks about why the Christmas tree attacked Rose, Jackie and Mickey. He asks about how the Santas are controlling it. He asks why Rose doesn't trust the Doctor (or Doctor What, as he has reverted to calling him) because _he_ definitely would. He asks why Jackie won't let the Doctor speak. He asks why someone would keep food in bathrobes. He asks why the people are going to the roof. He asks how the government has a universal translator. He throws his arms in the air (and knocks the popcorn bowl over in the process, which Arthur has to clean up) when the Doctor announces that he just needed tea to recover, and Francis asks what is wrong with "you English people". By the end, Arthur is seething. That was the worst experience of his life, and he has had his fair share of bad experiences.

"Okay, Francis, thanks for _watching_ that with me," he says bitterly, standing up. "I'm going to bed."

"Really? You're going to bed? I was just starting to enjoy myself! That really wasn't as bad as I thought it would be!" he smirks at Arthur and inquires, his voice challenging, "Can we watch another one?"

 _"No!"_ Arthur immediately snaps. "Go ahead if you want to, but I am _not_ watching Doctor Who with you ever again!"

"Why?" Francis asks innocently, batting his eyelashes at Arthur, which makes his cheeks heat up (damn his stupid pale skin!).

"Because watching it with you is bloody infuriating, that's why!"

Unbeknownst to Arthur, this is exactly what Francis wanted. He planned the whole thing so that he could turn the tables on Arthur, because he obviously planned to watch the show that Francis dislikes the most and tried to make the experience as bad as possible. And so, Francis planned to make Arthur regret the whole thing, enough that they will never have to watch it again. Francis smirks to himself. The French usually get what they want.

"It is? Oh, sorry," Francis smiles sweetly.

"Ooh, you're going to regret this, Bonnefoy," Arthur says darkly by way of a reply, his eyes narrowed, and Francis' stomach drops.

 _Merde._

Arthur still has to watch _his_ show. Whatever he's planning can't be good. Francis chuckles, but it's forced.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

Arthur regards him with his hooded gaze before taking the empty popcorn bowl to the kitchen, dumping the seeds into the garbage and placing it in the sink. Francis can hear his footsteps as they grow farther away as he heads down the hall to their bedroom.

"Nice going," Francis mutters to himself, rising as soon as he hears the ensuite door close.

He trudges to the bedroom and goes through his nightly routine, frowning all the while. Even after Arthur falls asleep (he rolls over later and pulls Francis into his chest, at which point Francis can feel himself blushing a little), he remains dreadfully awake, trying to figure out what kind of torture Arthur will subject him to when he has to watch his show. He has a _lot_ to look forward to.

* * *

 _ **Week One  
Wednesday, April 19, 2017, 5:46 PM**_

Francis hears the click of the door unlocking and Arthur steps in, his briefcase clutched in one hand and his hair sticking up at all angles. He drags his feet across the room and collapses on the couch. Francis watches from behind the sink, and puts the kettle on because Arthur looks positively exhausted. This is the day they agreed to watch the show(s) of Francis' choosing, and Francis would rather be on Arthur's good side for that.

He flies around the kitchen with a sense of foreboding he didn't feel before, and hastily chops a carrot and an onion, the rapid sound of his knife on the cutting board calming him a little. He tastes the stew he has simmering on the stove, throws in a pinch of salt and a teensy bit of oregano, and then scrapes his carrots into the pot while he caramelises the onions. The flat fills with the pleasant scent of his dish, and Francis takes the moment to enjoy it. It doesn't last long, though, because the kettle whistles and Francis makes a cup of earl grey tea for Arthur (in his favourite Doctor Who mug), with loose leaves instead of tea bags the way he likes it.

Francis carries the mug into the living room where Arthur is sitting on the couch, his briefcase left on the floor. Francis almost trips over it. Arthur's eyes are closed, but he opens them when he hears Francis' near-fall. Francis offers him a lopsided smile and hands him the cup. Arthur accepts it gratefully, and Francis realises that he probably hasn't remembered that today they're watching whatever Francis picks. He grimaces at the thought.

Francis lowers himself down beside Arthur on the couch, who shifts and leans on Francis' shoulder.

"Today was shit," Arthur sighs.

"What happened?" Francis slips his arm around Arthur's waist, savouring this peaceful moment. It's the calm before the storm, he just knows it.

"That boss of mine – Anya, you've met her – is a _slave driver._ I _never_ miss deadlines, but I'm coming bloody well close because she's putting so much work on me," Arthur grumbles.

Arthur works at a publishing company as an editor, and it's a lot more demanding than Francis' graphic design job. Not only that, but added stress really gets to Arthur when it doesn't particularly get to Francis.

"I didn't think she was that bad," he hums, running his fingers through Arthur's hair so that it becomes even more tousled.

"You haven't seen her at work, Frog."

"I guess."

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes or so longer, and then the timer Francis set before he went to give Arthur his tea goes off and he reluctantly gets up to finish up dinner. Arthur moves away without protest. On his way to the kitchen, he hears the TV blare to life, and the sound of people talking fills the flat.

Francis frowns as he turns off the burner and ladles a portion into two bowls. He takes them to the living room, deciding that today isn't really good for a more formal dinner. When he arrives, he finds Arthur's empty mug of tea sitting beside him on the couch and that Arthur has not moved his briefcase onto the coffee table, so Francis has to avoid it again. He hands Arthur his stew and sits down beside him on the couch. Arthur mumbles a thank-you and starts eating (very quickly, mind you).

They're watching the news (Arthur, being the 25-year-old sour old man that he is, does love the news), and Francis takes the opportunity to bring up the dreaded topic of his show. They have to watch one today and one tomorrow, because Arthur likes doing any paperwork he gets for over the weekend on Friday so he doesn't have to worry about it.

"Can I…choose the channel?" Francis asks warily, because Arthur is bound to snap at him at any moment.

Arthur swallows before answering (with a smile for some reason), "Sure."

"R-really?"

"Yes, of course!" he says cheerfully. "Why wouldn't I be okay with your picking the channel?"

"Um… I don't know…" Francis can feel nervousness and dread begin to twist his stomach. This behavior is _not_ normal for Arthur.

Arthur raises a (hideous) eyebrow. "Then what are you worried about?"

"Nothing, I guess…" Francis frowns uneasily.

Arthur hands him the remote without any complaints or snide comments or fighting. Francis forces a smile and thanks him, scrolling through until he finds TLC. _Say Yes to the Dress_ is on and Francis waits for Arthur to say something snarky or sneer at him or _something,_ but nothing comes. Arthur just continues eating his stew and actually _holds Francis' hand._ Francis can't focus the entire time they watch it, because Arthur's being very, _very_ strange. He compliments the brides. He chastises the entourage. He even picks his favourite dresses. But weirdest of all is that he doesn't complain _once._ Not even about American customs. Francis gets twitchy.

"Are you okay, dear?" Arthur asks sweetly. Francis is only put more on edge because Arthur never, ever calls him that. It sounds wrong.

"I-I'm fine," Francis begins chewing his bottom lip, a nervous habit.

"Are you sure? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Francis plasters on a smile and hopes that it doesn't look as fake as it feels. "Yes, of course."

"Okay," Arthur resigns, kissing Francis' cheek.

Francis stands abruptly when the episode ends, feeling a little guilty for how he behaved when he had to watch Doctor What, when Arthur's putting an effort into being so nice to him now. Even still, it makes him very uncomfortable that Arthur isn't grumpy or yelling or _anything._ And he had such a mood swing from when he got home. It's really abnormal.

"Where are you going?" Arthur asks, his sweet tone dripping with venom. His eyes flash with some sort of malicious sense of victory. _"Toddlers and Tiaras_ is next, don't you want to watch that?"

Francis searches for an escape. "Um, uh, I have to euh… do paperwork! Yes! Paperwork! I'll just be in the office doing…paperwork."

He begins to tiptoe away, but only gets to be behind the couch when Arthur looks back, the strangely cheerful, out-of-character smile still on his face. It doesn't reach his eyes.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him. Francis played right into his hands. "Since when do you get _paperwork?"_

"Since always! I've always had paperwork," Francis says quickly.

"Really?"

"Yes?" Francis hopes that Arthur will believe him. If he doesn't, he will be subjected to another half an hour of this weirdly supportive, happy Arthur.

A toothy grin spreads over Arthur's face. He has a look in his eye that makes Francis realise that he knows that he's lying. "Alright, love! See you later!"

"Y-yes, see you later."

Francis retreats to the office, shutting the door behind him. Arthur is creepy when he's supportive. It doesn't suit him. At all. It's like if a bear suddenly acted like a dog – it's just not right. Plus, it was obvious that Arthur was putting a lot of effort into being nice about Francis' show, and he put a lot of effort into being irritating about it. His stomach churns with guilt. That's going to haunt him for a while – and so will Arthur's behavior. Francis shudders involuntarily. Regardless of what he agreed earlier, watching another one of his shows with Arthur will drive him insane. He is _not_ doing that again.

Now he just has to figure out what to do with the two hours he's supposed to be in here "doing paperwork…"

Meanwhile, Arthur smirks to himself on the couch, patting himself on the back for his genius. It's not every day that Francis is the one to leave him alone. He has a tonne of work to do, but he has the entire flat to do it. He can do it on the couch, watching Downtown Abbey if he wants. He can spread all of his papers across the dining table. He can...actually, that's about where it ends. No matter, for as an added bonus, Francis is probably taking a guilt trip right now about how infuriating he was when they watched Doctor Who! He can even ignore the problem with Anya for a while – he's on top of the blooming world!

He almost forgets that they still have another session with Emma on Saturday.

* * *

 _ **Session Two  
Saturday, April 22, 2017, 1:28 PM**_

Arthur and Francis find themselves back in Emma's white office. Last week was a fiasco, so both of them attempt to hold out hope that this week will be better. Hopefully Emma won't make them do something ridiculous again like making them watch each other's shows; that would just be a recipe for a bigger disaster.

Francis looks around, studying the room. The men in the photo on her desk have a similar face shape to Emma, and the same honey blond hair. Siblings? It's likely. The ticking of a clock that hangs on the wall opposite the window echoes in the quiet and Francis fidgets uncomfortably in the leather armchair. Arthur is fairly cross because he's still adamant that counselling doesn't work (last week was just proof of that, he pointed out), and Francis disagreed with him, so they fought over that on the way here.

Arthur resigns to reading the mental health posters on the wall. One of them has a list of prominent historical figures that had mental health issues, and he's been reading that for a while. It's actually rather enlightening. He wishes that high school-era Arthur could have read it. Maybe he would have more confidence now.

The doorknob turns, and both Arthur and Francis whip around to look. Emma enters, wearing a blue pencil skirt decorated with yellow flowers and a flowy white blouse. Francis smiles at her.

 _"Bonjour!"_ he greets her, and Arthur knows that he's speaking French just to annoy him.

"Hello," Arthur grumbles.

Emma sees the glare that Arthur is sending Francis' way and chooses to answer in English to prevent another fight. "Hi! Mr. Kirkland, Mr. Bonnefoy, always a pleasure."

Arthur scoffs a little but doesn't comment.

"So, how did last week go?"

Francis forces a smile. "Okay, I suppose –"

Arthur cuts him off. "We fought over the shows. Unfortunately."

"Oh," Emma frowns, writing on her notepad. "Well, hopefully this week will be different! I've reviewed your lists, and I think that something stands out. Mr. Bonnefoy, you seem to think that Mr. Kirkland's eyebrows are, um…"

"Atrocious?" Francis finishes for her.

"Sure. And Mr. Kirkland, you seem to hate Mr. Bonnefoy's, well, beard, I suppose?" she shifts awkwardly. To her, it doesn't really look like a beard. Also, it's not at all unattractive. Arthur's eyebrows, on the other hand, well… she can see where Francis is coming from on that one.

"Yes, it's awful," Arthur frowns, and then adds in an afterthought, "and scratchy."

Francis huffs. "It is not!"

"Well, my eyebrows aren't caterpillars, either, so I don't see why you're so offended!"

"I'm _offended_ because unlike you, I actually spend time on my appearance!"

"Oh, _I know,"_ Arthur chuckles bitterly."It took you _five bleeding hours_ to get ready for that dinner party at Feliciano and Ludwig's a few weeks ago, and then you just got hammered with Gilbert and Antonio! It makes no sense to me! You even spilt wine on that shirt that you spent three hours picking out!"

"Ah, but that is why I chose it."

"What, to spill wine on it? That doesn't even make sense!" Arthur throws his arms in the air in exasperation.

Emma clears her throat pointedly, and Arthur and Francis both turn to her like deer caught in the headlights. She has to move on to actually doing some actual counselling, and their arguing is wasting her time.

They discuss Arthur and Francis' relationship problems for the remainder of their one-hour session, but there is a sense of dread in the air. Francis whines more than once about how his stubble is "sexy" and how "the ladies love it" so he shouldn't have to shave it off, and Arthur complains about how annoying Francis is, as well as mentions how his eyebrows are "just fine". Francis tells him that even Arthur's brothers tease him for his eyebrows, and they have huge eyebrows too, so his must be _especially_ ugly. As usual, Emma acts as a mediator and attempts to get them to admit to each other and to themselves the real reasons for their fights, but both are too prideful and stubborn. When the session ends, they are no further along than when they started, or at least that's what it feels like.

"Arthur," Francis begins as they walk through the waiting area and past the person at the front desk, "I'm going to the salon on Monday, so you can come with me then. There is a man who works there, Feliks. He used to do my eyebrows, and he did a marvelous job, I think. He could do wonders for yours. You can come with me when I go."

"Wait. You're actually telling me to go to your salon with you to do…what now with my eyebrows?"

"Shape them. Arthur, thick eyebrows are in, and you have them – it's just that they are so bushy and lack any form. I intend to fix that." Then Francis adds in an after thought, batting his lashes coyly at Arthur, "And I think it's _very_ attractive when men have shapely eyebrows."

"Oh, come off it, you sodding amphibian." Arthur swats at Francis' arm, but he just laughs. "Also, that means that you _have_ to shave that awful half-arsed beard. No ifs, ands or buts."

Francis smiles charmingly, draping his arm over Arthur's shoulders (an awkward endeavor, for they are both the same height). "A small price to pay, _mon cher."_

* * *

 _ **Week Two  
Monday, April 24, 2017, 6:36 PM**_

It had been a struggle to get Arthur to get on the Underground to even go to the salon. He protested the whole way, much to Francis' chagrin, even though _he_ promisedto shave his stubble off tomorrow without complaining. He's sure that this would be a good deal, because Arthur would look so much better without his stupid caterpillar eyebrows. Actually, he cannot stop imagining it.

They arrive at Francis' salon, where everyone greets him with a friendly "hi, Francis!". Some even ask, "oh, is that your boyfriend?" which makes Arthur blush out of embarrassment. Some old woman getting her hair permed goes so far as pinching Arthur's cheeks and cooing about how he's "even cuter than Franny said!"

 _It's like being swarmed by the Paparazzi,_ Arthur thinks bitterly. It is not at all, in fact, like being swarmed by the Paparazzi.

He just wants this horrid experience to be over so that he can go home and curl up with a cup of tea and a good book and never, ever think of this again. And he's still adamant that his eyebrows are perfectly fine (unfortunately for him, though, everyone in the salon knows who he is because Francis described him as wearing awful catigans and having "the biggest, ugliest eyebrows you will ever see. They look like hairy caterpillars crawling across his forehead").

Francis greets the woman who will be doing his hair (Marianne, apparently) _very_ warmly and they kiss each other on both cheeks like old friends. Arthur wonders why Europeans do that. It's creepy and awkward. He had to do it with Francis' parents once, neither of whom _he had ever met before,_ and it was one of the weirdest things he's ever done. He shudders involuntarily at the memory.

"Well, alright, Arthur, I'll be over there," he motions to an adjustable chair in front of a mirror, a side table-esque piece of furniture with various hair products beside it. "Come and get me when you're done. Oh! There's Feliks now!"

Francis waves at someone behind Arthur, so he turns around. A man waves back at Francis, grinning.

"Hey, Franny! It's been, like, forever since we last talked!" They do the cheek-kissing-thing and Arthur fights the urge to scoff.

Feliks has straight blond hair that falls to just above his shoulders, a heart-shaped face, sculpted eyebrows, and wears a frilly fuchsia blouse that puts even Francis' pink blouse to shame. Arthur feels as though he will go blind from looking at it for too long, it's so flashy.

"I know! We should go out for dinner sometime! All four of us!" Francis gushes, and Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, sure! Tolys will be totally stoked. I think he's getting tired of hanging out with those two friends of his…"

Arthur clears his throat pointedly, and both of them turn to look at him. Another easy, slightly airy smile splits Feliks' face.

"Arthur, right?" Feliks greets cheerfully, then his eyes flit to Arthur's brows and his face falls. "Wow, Franny, you really weren't kidding. Those things are, like, _humongous."_

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur glares at Francis, who rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I, uh, may have _mentioned_ the eyebrows once or twice…" Francis coughs nervously.

Feliks glances between them awkwardly, and then he smiles evilly at Arthur and drapes his arm over his shoulders. It does not work very well, because Feliks is several centimetres shorter than him.

"Don't worry, Arthur, I've got, like, 50 stories about what Fran said about you before you guys started dating. Some of them are _very_ cute. There's the one about the time he got drunk and totally –"

Francis flushes a light pink. "Feliks, no…" he protests weakly, but Feliks just smirks at him.

"Come on, Arthur, there are _way_ more stories where that came from."

Arthur chuckles and sets aside his earlier resignations about Feliks. He's boisterous, to be sure, and he speaks like a valley girl, but anyone who has embarrassing stories about Francis and is willing to share them is a friend of Arthur's. He and Feliks walk away, and Francis looks crestfallen as he watches them leave. He says something to Marianne in French that Arthur is pretty sure translates to "at least I can trust _you_ not to betray me", and then Arthur and Feliks are out of an earshot so he can't hear the rest of their conversation.

They enter a room across from the sinks where people get their hair washed, and Arthur is instructed to sit in the only chair in the room – it's like the chairs outside that people get their hair done in, and it sits in front of a mirror. Makeup products dominate the available space. Feliks flips a switch on a machine and stands behind Arthur. Their eyes meet in the mirror.

"I'm gonna guess that you don't know what you want."

"I have no idea," Arthur shrugs. "Francis said something about big eyebrows being 'in'" – he used air quotes here, for he only had a vague idea what "in" meant in this context – "but mine need to be shaped or something."

"Yeah, that makes sense. He's thinking of the classic Instagram brow."

"Sure, whatever. I don't really have a choice in the matter. We made a deal that if I plucked my eyebrows, he'll shave off that awful stubble of his," Arthur explains.

"Honey, we aren't plucking."

Arthur recoils. "Then what are we doing?" his voice quivers.

"Waxing," Feliks replies lightly, as if it's nothing.

Arthur's stomach drops in horror. Alfred has forced him to watch videos of people getting waxed. They always say how much it hurts. One guy was screaming the whole time. Arthur and Alfred had laughed hysterically at them, and now Arthur's in the same boat.

 _Karma,_ his mind "helpfully" supplies.

Feliks offers a lopsided smile. "Do you want to hear the story about when Francis got, like, totally drunk and almost ran through Trafalgar Square naked?"

Arthur chokes out a breathy laugh. "That's something the bloody frog would do."

And so, Feliks launches into the story. Apparently, Francis went out drinking with Feliks and Tolys (who are both heavyweights). Francis isn't as much, but he didn't want to look bad, so he drank the same amount as they did. He got _really_ drunk and started dancing on tables and poles and then he tried to strip and run into Trafalgar Square. Arthur snorted. Apparently, Feliks videotaped the whole thing, and he promises to show Arthur eventually.

At this point, Feliks announces that the wax has been sufficiently melted, and brushes Arthur's eyebrows back. He then applies wax between Arthur's brows and waits for a few moments for it to dry. Arthur can feel it freezing on his skin.

"This might hurt," Feliks warns, and then he proceeds to rip off the wax. Arthur visibly flinches, and has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Feliks sets his jaw, deciding that he is one of "those people".

It continues like this for a while longer as Feliks attempts to complete the nearly impossible task of shaping Arthur's eyebrows. In between, he tells Arthur stories about Francis ranting to him about Arthur and embarrassing and cringe-worthy (for Francis) stories from before they were dating and Francis found himself smitten with Arthur. Arthur only laughs so that he can ignore the pain.

Elsewhere in the salon, Francis and Marianne carry on with their conversation, but every time he hears a muffled, pain-filled "ow" coming from Feliks' room, Francis winces and feels just a little guilty. He tells this to Marianne, who just laughs daintily and tells him that beauty is pain. He agrees, but it's still just a little bit heart-wrenching.

Marianne is still in the process of styling his hair, applying hairspray with practiced flourish, when Feliks walks out of the room. Francis watches from his mirror. There's a very, _very_ attractive man following him, and Francis feels his face heat up. He's…for lack of a better term, _hot._ A walking model. Drop-dead gorgeous. Marianne follows his gaze and smirks knowingly.

Francis wonders, fleetingly, where Arthur is, and then it hits him. That guy _is_ Arthur. And Francis feels his heartrate speed up to a gallop, feels like his chest might burst. His whole face is red now, both out of embarrassment that he didn't recognise his boyfriend because he has thinner eyebrows and because _dear Lord, that's Arthur._ Francis feels his mind going haywire in an attempt to comprehend. He looks so damn _different_ with these eyebrows. It's like looking at a whole new face. Francis feels just a little bit uncomfortable because Arthur looks so different.

Arthur approaches and Francis stiffens. His boyfriend leans down so that his lips almost brush Francis' ear, and murmurs, rather annoyed, "Thanks for that _torture."_

He walks off without another word, and Francis stays, frozen in shock for another few moments, a dumbstruck expression (and an epic blush) on his face, before groaning and holding his head in his hands. He fucked up.

Feliks and Marianne burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

* * *

 _ **Week Two  
Tuesday, April 25, 2017, 7:10 AM**_

Francis, as always, wakes to the sound of an alarm blaring in his ear. He slams the "snooze" button, annoyed, and reluctantly drags himself out of bed. He instantly regrets it, because it's so much cozier _in_ bed, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to keep from crawling back under the covers. Arthur doesn't stir.

This is always how it goes: Francis will get up first; shower, get dressed and ready, and then Arthur will wake up and while he's showering Francis will make breakfast. Their morning routine had been messy when they first moved in together, because both of them tried to do everything at the same time, and they argued over who got the mirror, who got to use the sink first, who was going to shower. They eventually decided that it would be better to do things separately.

Francis showers, steps out and wraps himself in a towel. He picks out a suit to wear to work (grey, with a purple button-up shirt which he leaves unbuttoned at the top) and heads back to the bathroom to brush his teeth and do his hair and such, a routine which he finishes quickly (today he ties his hair back in a ponytail). As he's reaching for the door handle, it hits him that he has something else to do today; he's supposed to shave off his stubble. With an annoyed groan, he returns to the sink and proceeds to do just that, but not without shedding a tear or two for it. It was fashionable. It was beautiful. It was _sexy._ It was an integral element of his image!Jeanne used to like it. Why can't Arthur?

By the time he emerges, Arthur's waiting outside, a peeved look on his face, and Francis avoids looking at his strange new eyebrows for too long by shrugging in apology and dashing downstairs. He puts on the kettle for Arthur, makes a cup of coffee (which is far superior to tea, of course) for himself, and butters two croissants, one of which he leaves on a plate for Arthur. Francis then runs out the door with his breakfast in hand and a shout of "bye, see you after work! I love you!" He catches a grunt in reply before the door swings shut behind him.

On his route to work, Francis can't stop rubbing his chin. It's weirdly smooth. It reminds him of that one time that he dressed up as Peter Pan for Halloween and shaved off his stubble to be more in-character.

* * *

 _ **Week Two  
Tuesday, April 25, 2017, 6:02 PM**_

Francis is sitting on the couch in the living room, reading a novel Arthur recommended to him, when he hears keys jingle and the lock on the front door click. There's the creak of it opening and then a few moments of shuffling as Arthur takes off his shoes and his jacket, and then he emerges into the living room.

"Francis? I thought you were going out with Gilbert and Antonio," Arthur comments as he sits down beside him.

"Oh, it didn't work out. Gilbert was busy," Francis replies without looking up from his book. "By the way, I was thinking of ordering pizza, is that okay with you?"

Arthur snorts and pretends to scrutinise him. "The great Chef Bonnefoy, _ordering pizza?_ Are you sick? Should I call a doctor? Are you sure you want to eat such greasy _peasant's food?"_

"From Lovino and Feliciano's restaurant, not Pizza Hut or whatever."

There's a pause, and Francis can feel that Arthur's gaze doesn't leave him, so he finally looks up, distressed. "What? What are you looking at? Do I have something on my face?"

Arthur's eyes narrow in a barely veiled glare. "Yes. You do."

"What? Where?" Francis demands. Did he have something on his face _all day?_ Is that why the secretary he flirted with at work gave him a funny look?

"Right there," Arthur says matter-of-factly, pointing at his chin.

Francis mimics him, hand flying up to his chin to check, and he feels nothing under his fingers except his stubble.

"Did I get it?" he asks, eyes wide.

Arthur frowns. "No."

Francis tries again, but he's almost positive that there isn't anything there. Arthur grows even more annoyed this time and rolls his eyes.

"Right. There," Arthur hisses, making a vague gesture at Francis' jaw, and Francis attempts to follow his gaze and rubs his chin vigorously. Once more, the only thing he feels beneath his fingertips is his stubble.

"Are you sure that there is something there?" Francis inquires.

Arthur gives him a frustrated "are you actually kidding me right now" look.

 _"Yes,_ I'm sure!" he exclaims exasperatedly. "I'm absolutely positive!"

Francis regards him with suspicion. "Then what is it?"

"My God, Francis!" Arthur growls. "How have you not…? Actually, never mind, I shouldn't have expected you to pick up on it."

"Pick up on _what?"_

"The thing! On your face! Is your stupid beard, Frog!" Arthur nearly yells.

"Okay…?"

"You were _supposed_ to shave it off!"

"I did. That's why I took so long in the bathroom this morning," Francis shrugs nonchalantly.

"No you didn't, because if you did, you wouldn't have any right now!" Arthur grits out.

"I did!"

"No, you didn't! And after I put hot wax on my face for you!"

"Arthur, I swear I did!" Francis looks up at Arthur's eyebrows. They are, unsurprisingly, already growing back. That seems impossible in Francis' eyes, but it _is_ Arthur, and his eyebrows are powerful. They're like the eyebrow version of Popeye. "Also, your eyebrows are already coming back."

"Okay, if you did shave it, how do you explain that it came back after less than a day?" Arthur demands, ignoring Francis' second comment.

"Because God is saying, 'Francis, my favourite child, you just do not look sexy enough without your stubble! I will perform a miracle to help you grow it back quickly!'"

"As if God cares about you at all. You're not worth his time, and neither is your stupid beard," Arthur mutters.

"Oh, Arthur, you wound me," Francis fakes a pout and Arthur shoots a glare at him. "I am sure you don't hate my stubble. It is very attractive."

"It's not. It's bleeding awful, and you would do well to acknowledge that," Arthur frowns, certainty in his voice. A pause, and then: "Are you going to order pizza or not? I'm starving."

"Your wish is my command, _cher."_

* * *

 _ **Session Five  
Saturday, May 13, 2017, 1:34 PM**_

They're in Emma's office again, weeks from when they first began to come.

The past two weeks had been eventful, to say the least: the first, Francis had to cut down on his shampoo usage (Arthur insisted that he had so many hair products that he singlehandedly made the entire industry break even) and Arthur had to drink coffee for a change (a terrible, horrible experience that he would never like to repeat again. Francis, a coffee snob – as well as a snob in general – nearly threw a fit because Arthur thought his coffee was atrocious). The second week (and worst week thus far), Francis promised not to flirt with anyone except him for a whole seven days – though Arthur has a sneaking suspicion he still did when he wasn't around – and Arthur promised to engage in "PDAs" for a week (PDAs, as he discovered, were "Public Displays of Affection". He was wholly against this, but of course, his overly romantic French boyfriend was not, so he was forced into it. He ended up holding Francis' hand a total of eight times, pecking his cheek three times, and being kissed by him in a crowded carriage on the Underground once. That last one was by far the most embarrassing, as it attracted considerable attention from the others in the carriage).

Emma walks in with a pleasant greeting and a lovely smile. She asks how the last week went, as usual. Arthur hasn't the energy to lie or sugar-coat it, but Francis, as usual, attempts to put a positive spin on the issue.

"Ah, it was magnificent, actually. Arthur kissed me on the tube."

"I beg your pardon? _You_ kissed _me,"_ Arthur growls.

Francis waves his hand about dismissively. "Details, details."

"No! Not" – Arthur imitates Francis' accent very, very horribly – "'details, details'! It was embarrassing!"

Emma writes something on her notepad.

"Why? Are you embarrassed of me?" Francis scrutinises Arthur, looking genuinely hurt, but one can never be sure with the frog.

"It's just like you to twist my words like that!"

"Well, are you?"

"Sometimes, yes! Who wouldn't be embarrassed of a frog of a boyfriend who dresses like a runway model and wears perfume that's always way too pungent and _kisses them in crowded carriages!?"_ Arthur demands, annoyed. He swears that Francis does not have common sense. His brain is probably crammed full of sexual innuendos and ways to piss him off.

"At least I have a sense of fashion! You just wear ugly vomit green sweater-vests all the time!" Francis protests, then adds, "And Jeanne wasn't embarrassed of me!"

"Yeah, well, I'm not Jeanne. No one is Jeanne. Jeanne is gone," Arthur says dangerously.

 _"Arthur,"_ Francis warns sharply. He has a solemn look on his face.

Emma scribbles something down and then asks, "Who's Jeanne?"

"She was…my fiancé," Francis explains, throat tight. Why can't he talk about her years later without being brought to tears? "She passed away a few years ago."

"I'm sorry," Emma tells him. He just shakes his head.

"Thank you, but it was a long time ago."

Arthur sits morosely in his chair, lips pressed together and arms folded across his chest. He avoids eye contact with everyone else in the room. He crossed the line. There aren't many when they argue, but Jeanne is certainly one of them. Emma's gaze lands on Arthur. She has the sneaking suspicion that he's a little bit of a jealous type.

"You aren't competing with her, you know," she says, and Arthur looks up, eyes wide.

"I beg your pardon?"

Francis composes himself and furrows his eyebrows, his expression equally confused.

"She's gone. You don't have to be jealous of her," Emma clarifies.

"I'm not!"

Emma raises her eyebrows at him. "That's not what it looks like to me."

"You're jealous of _Jeanne?"_ Francis regards him with a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

"No, I am _not!"_ Arthur growls, and Emma decides to let him realise it himself.

Francis snorts, but neither of them push it.

"Alright, anyways, this week, Francis, you can choose Arthur's outfits" – Arthur groans loudly at this – "and Arthur, you can cook two nights a week."

Francis screeches. "Nonononono, dear Emma, you do not understand! Arthur is a hazard in the kitchen! He will burn the house down!"

"You can supervise, then."

Arthur smirks. "Now I can finally make you that shepherd's pie I promised I would."

"No!" Francis howls. "I don't want your burnt, tasteless English gruel!"

"It is not tasteless! You've never even had it, so how would you know?! And it's not _gruel,_ it's a _pie!"_

To Francis' amusement, Arthur does not deny the "burnt" part. "Arthur, I know because I have seen you cook. Anything you attempt in the kitchen ends up as a mess on the floor."

"It does _not!"_

"And those scone things tasted like ash. Because they were so burnt."

"They're an English delicacy! Her Majesty would be appalled!"

Francis groans, rolling his head back so he stares at the ceiling in exasperation. Honestly, what is _with_ Arthur's obsession with the Queen? He's suddenly glad that France got rid of its monarchy so long ago. At least people _there_ don't bring monarchs into everything.

Emma offers a close-lipped smile that looks a lot more like a grimace and tells them to calm down. The rest of the session goes much the same way, with Francis fearing for his life (Arthur is going to have free reign of the kitchen, for the love of God) and Arthur fearing for his dignity (it will all be gone by the time Francis is finished with him, he's sure). When the session ends and Emma makes off for someone else's appointment, both Arthur and Francis wallow in self-pity and await their inevitable fates. On the tube ride home, Francis attempts to dissuade Arthur from cooking and Arthur attempts to dissuade Francis from choosing his outfits. Of course, neither of those things work, as they are both too stubborn to realise that they could just do neither and then both of them would be happy. They don't think like that. They'd never think like that.

They both dread the coming week, when Francis will pick out Arthur's outfits for work (presumably using some of his clothes because Arthur has nothing Francis has deemed "stylish") and Arthur will likely end up nearly burning down their flat and/or killing Francis with his cooking.

* * *

 _ **Week Five  
Tuesday, May 16, 2017, 6:41 AM**_

Francis shakes Arthur awake before the sun has even cracked the horizon.

Yesterday and the day before had been a bit chaotic, because Francis insisted that they get up earlier so he had time to dress Arthur, and then yesterday Arthur cooked dinner, to Francis' eternal horror. Francis had to stay in the kitchen and oversee the entire affair, as Arthur is catastrophically unlucky when it comes to cooking. He almost dumped a cup of salt into the dough for his crust, nearly burnt the entire thing to a crisp, and he couldn't even measure the ingredients properly. Francis had to admit, the "shepherd's pie" Arthur made wasn't as terrible as he thought it would be, but it was still gag-worthy. Francis shivered every time he took a bite, no matter how much he tried to hide it for Arthur's sake. It was so bland, burnt on the outside and almost undercooked on the inside ( _Only a crème brûlée should be like that,_ Francis thought), and was oddly soggy (how that was achieved, Francis did not know, for the whole thing was burnt).

Arthur groans and attempts to shoo Francis away, grumbling something about five more minutes. Francis just frowns.

"Arthur?" he coaxes, voice a bit gravelly from the sleepiness that still hasn't worn off despite getting up almost an hour ago. He hopes that Arthur will respond to gentleness rather than aggression, but they both know that's not the case.

"Go away, mum, it doesn't matter if I'm late anyway…" Arthur slurs, pulling the covers tighter around his body.

Francis crosses his arms, rather annoyed at the lack of ability Arthur has to get up.

"I'm not your mum, Arthur," he says crossly.

"Dad, sorry…"

"Maybe not dad, but I _am_ your daddy,"Francis says smoothly, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

Finally, Arthur's eyes snap open, and upon seeing Francis, a dark blush spreads across his face. Of course. Of _course_ Francis had to make something innocent into some sort of weird euphemism. If Gilbert and Antonio were here, they would be pissing themselves laughing.

"Oh, sod off, Frogface!" Arthur glares, sitting up abruptly.

He rubs his eyes, something which Francis finds, inexplicably, irresistibly cute, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. His hair is sticking up at all angles again. Francis thinks it defies gravity.

"Do I have to play dress-up with you again?" Arthur sneers, but the effect of it is somewhat lost because he yawns halfway through the sentence.

Francis purses his lips. "It's not dress-up, it's me teaching you how to choose the right clothes to wear by putting them on you."

"That's what dress-up is," Arthur deadpans.

Francis considers it for a moment, and decides that Arthur is right. He doesn't admit that, though, for the sake of his pride, and opts not to answer.

"Whatever, just shower and stuff, and I'll see if I can find anything suitable for you to wear," Francis tells him, and Arthur scoffs.

"Everything I wear is _suitable."_

"Arthur, you wear tweed and sweater-vests and those 'jumpers' or whatever. I think you practically become colour blind when you're choosing clothes."

"Tweed isn't that bad! And neither are jumpers or sweater-vests!" Arthur protests, but he trudges off in the direction of the bathroom nevertheless.

In the meantime, Francis scours Arthur's wardrobe for something – anything – that could be considered remotely fashionable, but, alas, there is nothing. The closest things he finds are a tartan and a pair of black dress pants. Honestly, he shouldn't be so surprised. Francis tries his closet next, as he ended up doing yesterday and the day before, too, but it's hard to find something that would fit Arthur. Francis is a lot curvier than he is, and of course, that is reflected in his clothes, for they are all tailored for him. Anything that would fit Arthur is either far too casual for work of far too formal.

As Arthur comes back into the room, wearing a bathrobe, his hair sopping wet (didn't he even _try_ to dry it?), Francis pulls out a black dress shirt with a satisfied "ah-hah!" and pairs it with the dress pants he found earlier and a grey suit jacket with a black collar. He shoves the bundle of clothes into Arthur's hands and tells him to change, feeling very pleased with himself for having pulled _that_ together. He makes a mental note to take Arthur shopping later.

Arthur groans and sulks back off to the bathroom. Why he doesn't change here, Francis doesn't know. Arthur is very self-conscious and repressed – perhaps that's why.

When he returns, the same morose expression on his face as before, he's wearing the outfit Francis chose (without the flare Francis would want, but beggars can't be choosers). Francis allows his gaze to travel down Arthur's body, admiring and inspecting his handiwork. If nothing else, it looks much nicer than Arthur's usual tweed suits and argyle vests. And the more refined look suits Arthur's not-so-new-anymore eyebrows (which still freak Francis out to some extent, even though they've almost grown back).

"We need to do your hair now," Francis announces, and Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Isn't this enough?" he asks, exasperatedly gesturing to his outfit. Francis shakes his head (and repeats the phrase in the same way that Eliza sings it in "Non-Stop").

"No, that rat's nest of yours ruins the effect. Your hair needs to be neater," Francis tells him, and he leads Arthur to the bathroom. Arthur mutters something about this being the second time he's had to return to the bathroom (two too many, if you ask him) and follows.

Arthur lowers the toilet lid and sits on it as he waits for Francis, who has plugged in a blow-dryer and is producing combs and brushes and aerosol cans that Arthur presumes contain hairspray from the depths of the bathroom drawers. Honestly, Arthur doesn't know where Francis gets half the hair and makeup products he has. He doesn't even need them – he is, infuriatingly, gorgeous.

First, Francis towel dries Arthur's hair, and then combs it and attacks it with his blow-dryer and a cylindrical hairbrush. The air is so hot that it sometimes gets close to burning Arthur's scalp, but he ignores the slight twinges of pain in favour of looking through his Twitter feed (something that he has honestly never done before, as Alfred forced him to get some form of social media a few months ago and he forgot he had it until now). He fumbles around with it, unsure of how it works, as Francis combs his hair back again. He puts some foam from a can in his palm, and Arthur thinks it smells rather nice, actually.

"What is that?"

"Mousse," Francis responds without looking up. He runs his "mousse"-covered fingers through Arthur's hair to tame it, and Arthur shivers at how cold it is.

Francis ruffles Arthur's hair a couple times for good measure (to give it "volume", Francis says) and then applies hairspray and, with a "voilà" gesture, tells Arthur to look in the mirror. He gets up and walks over to the sink. Arthur hardly recognises the person looking back at him. With the strange eyebrows and the stylish outfit and the tamed hair (parted on the right and swept back and off to the left), he doesn't resemble himself at all. It's freaky.

"So?" Francis prompts him. "What do you think?"

Arthur furrows his eyebrows. "I think that I look…different," he answers truthfully.

Francis offers a lopsided smile. "I am sure you will receive many compliments, _chou_. You look trendy, stylish, _lovely!"_

He adds to his description with exaggerated gestures, and Arthur smiles a teensy bit for Francis, since he ate the shepherd's pie last night without very much complaining. Arthur could tell he hated it, but at least he put an effort into being nice for once. Francis scrutinises him, looking for an imperfection, and suddenly, his smile wanes.

"Ah, but _cher,"_ Francis frowns, sounding forlorn.

"What?" Arthur asks, turning around to face Francis.

"You shouldn't" – he steps closer so that their chests almost touch – "have your top button done up" – his hands creep up Arthur's shoulders – "it looks too stuffy."

Francis reaches for the button, but grabs Arthur's collar instead, pulling him just enough so that their lips touch for a lingering, feather-light kiss, unrushed and gentle and benevolent. Francis undoes the button sometime during their kiss, and when he pulls away, Arthur's blushing. Why does he have that tendency? Francis never blushes, so why does he?

"Wouldn't you agree?" Francis breathes, the gap between them still so small that Arthur can feel Francis' heartbeat against his ribs.

Arthur ruins the magic of the moment by ducking away and growling, "I can manage my buttons on my own, thanks!"

Francis rolls his eyes as he leaves. At least they didn't really fight this time.

* * *

 _ **Week Five  
Friday, May 19, 2017, 6:07 PM**_

Arthur enters the house after work has finished to find Francis sprawled across the couch, watching something in French which seems to consist of a lot of intense staring, melancholy background music and tear-filled what Arthur assumes are confessions. He tosses his keys into a bowl they keep at the door and crosses into the threshold, hanging up his jacket and putting his shoes in a neat pair by the door (Francis' are strewn all over the place, making their entryway a minefield. Arthur makes a mental note to organise them later).

He feels ready to sit down; the end-of-week tiredness has set in – but then he remembers that he has to cook dinner today. Part of him is excited to prove Francis wrong about his cooking (Monday was a bit of a fiasco), but part of him just wants to curl up in bed with _Harry Potter_ and a cup of tea.

"Hi," Francis calls from his place on the couch, not looking away from the screen, where there seems to be a moodily-lit date taking place set to lethargic classical music. "Are you still going to cook dinner or should I order something? How about Indian?"

"I'm still cooking, you prick," Arthur grumbles.

"Oh, well, it was worth a shot," Francis shrugs. Arthur can _hear_ his smirk.

Arthur heads to the bedroom and changes out of one of the outfits Francis had planned for him and into tartan pyjama pants and a Bastille t-shirt from the depths of his wardrobe. Francis took him out shopping on Wednesday, an experience Arthur hopes he will never have to repeat, and he bought him new clothes - while they technically are his, Arthur doesn't want to risk the scolding he'll get if he gets anything on them. When he emerges, Francis is still laying across the couch like an overgrown housecat, though the same people on the TV who had been on a date are now aggressively making out. Arthur takes one look, decides that it is not something he wants to watch, and heads to the kitchen.

He decides to attempt bangers and mash, because at least it's something that cannot be easily messed up. He just has to put two or three sausages in the oven and boil some potatoes. How difficult can that be?

Apparently, very difficult. He's already unsure of whether he's supposed to put the sausages on a baking tray or something or just stick them in the oven, and what temperature he should preheat the oven to – or if he should preheat the oven at all. He grumbles to himself as he attempts to remember what he learnt in the mandatory Home Ec class he took in middle school (that he was almost kicked out of for nearly burning down the building with a lasagna. Needless to say, the lowest marks he got that year were from that class).

"Arthur?" Francis calls from the living room. "Do you need any help?"

 _"No!"_ Arthur replies sharply. Francis has no faith in him. Arthur _will_ cook this meal, and it _will_ be the best bloody meal Francis has ever eaten.

"Alright…" Francis says skeptically. Really, he should be in the kitchen, watching Arthur closely with a fire extinguisher at the ready, but he's too absorbed in his French soap opera to realise that.

Arthur sets the oven to preheat to 500 degrees because that seems like a good, round number, puts a pot of water on the stove to boil, and gets two rather large potatoes from the fridge. He sets the potatoes on the counter and chooses to ue a large butcher's knife (not that he knows that it's called that) to cut them, because that knife was the only one wider than the diameter of the potatoes. For a second, he wonders if he's missing anything, but decides he isn't and raises the knife above his head before bringing it down upon the potato. He barely nicks the side, so just some skin peels off in a comically slow fashion, but there is a loud "klunk" sound as the blade collies with the countertop.

"Arthur…?" Francis begins warily. "What was that…?"

"Nothing!" Arthur replies quickly. "Nothing at all!"

Arthur imagines Francis frowning and then going back watching to his show. The volume of it is turned up enough that French is all Arthur can hear. It drills into his head, but he ignores the irritation he's begun to feel and goes back to cutting the potato. He takes another swing at it (literally) and ends up cutting the potato diagonally across the middle. Again and again, he tries, but he ends up with a messily-cut potato with random nicks and uneven cuts. Arthur shrugs because he's mashing them later anyways, and gathers them up to put into the pot of boiling water on the stove. He deposits them, places the lid overtop, and waits for the oven to tell him that it has sufficiently heated up.

Meanwhile, Arthur cleans up the spot where he had been cutting the potatoes – and to his horror, he ruined the countertop where he had been chopping. It's all covered with marks. And then it hits him. _That's_ what he forgot. A _cutting board._ Arthur slaps his forehead and groans. The first step, and he made a mistake.

The oven beeps and Arthur decides to just place the sausages into the oven without a baking tray (how else do sausages get those darker lines on them?). Now, all he has to do it wait. A difficult task, seeing as he can't watch the soap opera with Francis because it's in French. He texts Kiku instead, until the pot begins to foam. Froth oozes down the sides hissing and spitting like a feral cat, and as it hits the burner, it gets louder and steam begins to float into the sky. Arthur panics.

"Shit, shit, shit shit…" he mutters, turning off the burner and removing the pot from it, unsure of the actual solution.

He lets the foam dissipate and then decides not to put it back to cook longer, so he strains the potatoes (which involves him dumping the contents of the pot into the sink and then picking out the chunks of potato) and places them in a bowl, aggressively mashing them with a fork because they don't have the actual tool (Francis _never_ mashes potatoes). Arthur has a sneaking suspicion that they are undercooked, but he doesn't care at this point.

Now he just has to wait for the sausages to cook. That shouldn't be a problem, so he heads to the living room, where Francis is getting emotional over whatever's happening on-screen. Arthur sits on the couch beside him and begins texting Kiku again. Francis looks up suspiciously.

"Shouldn't you be watching…whatever you're cooking?"

"No, it's fine, I have the timer on."

Francis narrows his eyes and scrutinises Arthur. He doesn't believe for one second that Arthur actually put a timer on, but he gives him the benefit of the doubt. This will be the second (and last) time Arthur is cooking in this house if he can help it, so Francis allows him to do what he wants.

They're silent for a while (too long, in Francis' opinion) and then he smells smoke and snaps to attention.

"Do you smell that?" Francis inquires with a hint of panic.

Arthur shrugs. "No, what?"

And then the smoke alarm goes off, wailing loudly at them. Arthur and Francis both look back at the kitchen. Smoke leaks out of the room, and they both jump to their feet to go and investigate. Of course, it's coming out of the oven, and Francis facepalms. Arthur coughs as he turns it off and removes the charred mess that were the sausages. They look like they had been on fire. Francis rolls his eyes and goes to turn off the smoke alarm.

When its beeping has stopped, Francis trudges back into the room and says, an _"are you fucking kidding me"_ look on his face, "What did you set the oven to." It doesn't sound like a question.

"Um."

Francis raises a very annoyed, very judgemental eyebrow.

"I can't remember?"

Francis rolls his eyes. "You really are _awful_ at cooking. I don't know how you managed to mess up this badly," he pauses, and then adds with a heavy sigh, "but at least you tried, I guess."

Arthur looks down at the charred sausages and his mashed potatoes (which went cold in the time for the sausages to cook) and asks, "Are you still up for Indian?"

"As long as you promise never to cook in this kitchen again."

Arthur feels his stomach rumble and he decides he's in no mood to argue at the moment. "I promise."

* * *

 _ **Week Seven  
Thursday, June 8, 2017, 9:13 PM**_

Francis and Arthur had gotten better at controlling their anger and choosing what things were worth arguing about in the past weeks. They live much more calmly now, and they're both sure that the neighbors are sighing with relief (their frequent yelling matches were likely very annoying for the other people in the building).

The last two weeks were less harrowing than some of the others – last week, Arthur went to a French restaurant on a date, took a romantic (or cheesy, in Arthur's opinion) walk in the park after nightfall to "see the city lights", as Francis put it. That same week, Arthur made Francis go to a teahouse for lunch, which – though Francis dressed up far too much for the occasion and complained about the "tea" part the entire time – was actually very enjoyable. In truth, they had both almost forgotten what "dating" really felt like. This week, Francis was barred from buying anything other than food (he complained a lot because of this. He can't control himself when shopping) and Arthur was forced to expand his wardrobe.

They lie together in their bed, Francis' head on Arthur's chest. Arthur has thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, which Francis finds very endearing. Arthur's bedside lamp is on, casting a lovely orange glow, swathing them in dim-ish light which reaches even the far corners of the bedroom. Arthur flips a page in his novel _(1984_ by George Orwell) while Francis scrolls through Tumblr, where he runs a fairly popular photography account.

Arthur begins to absentmindedly run his fingers through Francis' hair, and a soft smile finds its way onto Francis' face. These quiet moments are his favourite, when they're both content to allow their actions to speak rather than their words; when they can communicate their love without having to say anything. Then again, Francis has always been sort of sappy in that way; too poetic for his own good. No matter, Francis feels his chest swell a little and he leans into Arthur's touch just a little bit.

He receives a notification that someone has re-blogged the only post he has about Jeanne that he left on his dash and it hits him: he never figured out if Emma's accusations were correct, if Arthur really _is_ jealous of her. Actually, there are other things he has to talk to Arthur about, too.

"…Arthur?" Francis begins, reaching up to tap Arthur's shoulder.

"Yes?"

Francis exhales through his nose, gathering up his courage. "Are you…actually jealous of Jeanne? Be honest."

A scowl immediately settles on Arthur's face, and he stops playing with Francis' hair. "I'm not. I mean, she's…passed, right? Why would I be jealous of that?"

"It just seems like…" Francis struggles to find the right words. "Whenever I mention her…you get defensive."

"I do not!"

"You just did."

"Touché," Arthur sighs. "I suppose I…"

Arthur untangles his fingers from Francis' hair and bookmarks his novel, setting it on the side table in long, dragged-out motions like he's planning what he's going to say. Francis continues to look at him expectantly as he removes his glasses and places them on top of the book.

"Francis, I'm not good at talking about my emotions, so I apologise in advance," Arthur begins, and Francis nods. "It's just… Whenever you talk about Jeanne, it's always things that she did that I don't. It's always ways that she's better than me. And I…" he massages his temples, eyes screwed shut, "I feel like you'd rather be with her than me. I feel like I'm playing second fiddle to her. Like I'm a shitty bleeding replacement."

Francis' eyes widen in shock and he sits up abruptly. "What?"

"I know you heard me, I'm not repeating myself," Arthur growls.

Francis thinks for a moment. "You're not a replacement. And…I'm sorry for making you feel that way. I love _you_ now, and if Jeanne were to come back today, I'd pick you over her."

Arthur smiles weakly. "Thanks. That means a lot."

"Sometimes you have a funny way of showing it!" Francis chokes out a laugh, and Arthur even allows himself an amused snort.

There's a moment of silence between them as they both retreat into their thoughts. Arthur is the one who breaks it.

"As much as I hate to say it, I think this 'couple's therapy' wasn't so bad after all," he hesitates for a moment. "Don't take that too seriously. Lord knows your ego doesn't need to be any further inflated."

Francis grins. "I told you so!"

Arthur raises an eyebrow (which has entirely grown back). "I said _I_ reserved the right to say that."

Francis shrugs nonchalantly. He couldn't care less, really. He was right! And not only that, but Arthur actually _admitted_ that fact. To Francis' face. This sort of thing hardly ever happens. No, scratch that, it _never_ happens. Arthur is _way_ too prideful and stubborn to admit that he was wrong.

"I daresay," Arthur begins as he reaches over to shut off the lamp on the side table, "we're getting better."

There's a click and then the room is engulfed by shadow, only offset slightly by the cracks of streetlight that come in from the slats in the blinds. Francis' eyes widen as he strains to see in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

"I think so, too," Francis agrees, lying down and pulling the sheets up. He leaves a leg uncovered because it's the summer and their flat doesn't have air conditioning.

There's a shuffling sound as Arthur settles down beside him, and Francis' eyes finally adjust. Arthur's fingers twine with his, and they remain silent for a while, waiting for sleep to take them. Francis feels relaxed and secure and light, now that the whole issue with Jeanne has been cleared up. He feels very guilty for the whole thing, but then again – as another, more rational part of his brain reminds him – he had no idea Arthur felt that way. And plus, it wasn't like Arthur was without fault; his whole crusade against public displays of affection still irks Francis to no end (and saddens him, just a little bit). Still, at least it's something that they've cleared up. At least there's _hope._ And maybe in a little while, they'll be able to get along like his idea of a normal couple (part of him knows that won't happen, but one can dream).

Francis rolls over and smiles at Arthur's face, peaceful and slack as he dozes off. His caterpillar eyebrows are back, and Francis decides he likes it better that way, not that he'd ever admit it. They suit him more like this. They're sort of…inherently _Arthur._ Francis doesn't know why it took him so long to realise that (they're still hilarious, mind you, and Francis won't stop teasing him for them, but now he can appreciate that he looks better with them than without).

"Arthur?"

Arthur doesn't open his eyes when he hums sluggishly in response. Francis can tell that he's teetering on the edge of sleep, when one can still hear what's going on in the outside world but isn't fully there.

"I love you," Francis whispers, and it's quiet but because everything else is quieter, it seems to echo.

"Mm, love you too," Arthur mumbles, and Francis kisses the top of his head before allowing himself to drift off as well.

He dreams of exploring flower fields and vast forests and grand palaces, all with Arthur by his side.

* * *

 _ **Session Twenty-Two  
Saturday, September 16, 2017, 1:31 PM**_

"Hello! Francis, Arthur," Emma greets cheerfully as she enters. "How are you? How did last week go?"

They had stopped doing "the compromise thing", as Arthur began to call it, a few weeks ago. Emma decided that if they just kept in mind that communication, compassion and compromise were key (she referred to them as the Three "C"s), they would be fine. She still insisted they come for a few more weeks, just to be sure they still could talk to each other with a mediator, but this session will be the last.

"Fine, thanks," Arthur replies, ever formal. "How are you?"

"Last week was really good," Francis adds. They'd cleared up the issues Francis has with Arthur's hate of public displays of affection, as well as a couple of other problems that had been affecting their relationship, thanks to Emma's gentle nudging in the right direction.

"I'm glad to hear it! And I'm pretty good. I visited Abel in the Netherlands last week, so that was nice," she smiles brightly. Francis beams back.

The office feels much more familiar now, less like a clinic and more like a friend's house. Francis feels immense gratitude towards Emma for playing the role she did in reducing their number of arguments, allowing them to be more open with each other, and forging a stronger sense of trust between them. Their friends have even mentioned how much better they get along (still not swimmingly, mind you; they still argue to some extent. However, it's usually more playful than anything; they both just appreciate a good debate).

"Lovely," Arthur remarks, looking genuinely happy for her.

She nods happily. "So, what about you guys? Did you do anything interesting?"

"We went out for dinner with Elizabeta, Roddy… Gil, Matthieu, Toni, Lovino…" Francis contemplates it for a moment, "Ludwig, Feli, Alfred, Ivan, Kiku and Mei after the session on Saturday."

"Really? What for?"

"Elizabeta and Roddykins are getting married!" Francis exclaims jovially. He's one of those people who loves weddings. Actually, scratch that, he loves anything to do with love.

"Oh? That's wonderful!" Emma grins.

"Yeah, and the proposal was so romantic, too! He had been off touring Europe – he's a pianist, as you know – and then he surprised her by coming back early! And proposed! It was _so_ adorable!" Francis gushes eagerly. "I, of course, saw it coming," he adds, flipping his hair over his shoulder.

"He's been like this all week," Arthur grumbles. "I think he's trying to tell me something."

"Oh, not at all, _mon cher._ I just I think it's funny that they're the first ones of us to get married. I thought Ludwig and Feliciano would be first," Francis feigns innocence, faking contemplativeness. "Oh! We went to Westminster because I had never been. I still can't believe Arthur agreed to that one."

"I was reluctant," Arthur says with a teasing eye-roll.

Francis chuckles. "I know."

Emma regards them with a sort of pride; when they came in, they were fighting over the smallest little things, and now look! They seem to be getting along very well.

"Did you fight at all?"

"Not really," Arthur shrugs, "just about normal things. And Westminster."

Francis winks. "You know who won that one!"

Emma laughs and Arthur scowls. He mutters something that sounds a lot like "bloody frog…" under his breath.

 _Well,_ thinks Emma, _at least it's not who's most likely to die in an apocalypse._

Honestly, that one really threw her off. She had never heard of someone fighting over such a thing in all her years as a couple's counsellor, but there is a first time for everything, she supposes. They are a strange pair, Arthur and Francis. They're complete opposites – the only place where they're the same is in their horrible pride. Francis is outgoing, Arthur is introverted; Francis is an optimist, Arthur is a pessimist; Francis is emotionally in-touch, Arthur is a lot less so. Though, Emma muses, opposites attract.

"That's good," she tells them, a statement that earns a tiny, lopsided smile from Arthur.

"I suppose so," he says lightly.

"And you don't have any other concerns?"

"No, I don't think so," Francis answers this time. "We'll call you if we do, though," he quickly glances at Arthur. "Or, rather, _I_ will."

Emma and Francis both chuckle a little, and Arthur crosses his arms with an indignant "hmph!"

They converse with each other for a while like old friends would. Emma talks about her two brothers (the younger one moved to Luxembourg and the older one, to Holland) for a while, and tells them stories about the results of the eldest's stinginess and obsession with money. Arthur talks about his brothers and their antics (they were all pretty rough-and-tumble, and teased Arthur a _lot)_ and Francis, about his sisters. They talk about little nuisances about life in London and Emma's cat and Francis' desire for a pet (Arthur points out that they cannot have one because their landlord would have their heads if they did). Time flies by, and at the end of the session, they all feel comfortable in their relaxed banter. Emma is the one to say that she has another client to see, so Arthur and Francis smile politely and stand to leave, saying their goodbyes and promising to talk to Emma soon.

As they're making their way to the door, Francis stops and turns around. "Emma, I can't thank you enough. You're… You… Thank you so much. _Merci beaucoup._ For everything."

Arthur quirks an eyebrow, but says nonetheless, "Yes, thank you."

Emma grins brightly and approaches them. She hugs Francis and when they do the cheek-kissing-thing that he hates, Arthur just grimaces and nothing more. When Emma sees his face, though, she chuckles to herself and just chooses to shakes his hand instead.

"My pleasure," Emma replies cheerfully. Part of her can't believe that at the beginning of this whole thing, she dreaded working on their case (part of her can definitely believe it, though, Arthur and Francis were, and are, to an extent, _ridiculous._ Eccentric, perhaps).

"Bye, see you later," Arthur smiles as he and Francis walk into the hallway.

Francis beams. _"Au revoir!"_

"Bye!" Emma calls after them as they close the door.

Francis and Arthur take the walk that they have so many times before, down the '80s hallway, past the receptionist, through the waiting room; part of Francis is going to miss it. It's been a part of his life for months now. It'll be weird not to come here on Saturday every week and talk to Emma. It will feel like part of their routine is missing.

As they make their way to the subway station, Francis knits his fingers with Arthur's, and Arthur doesn't complain or tell him to let go – if Arthur is embarrassed or flustered or annoyed, he doesn't show it. Francis smiles. This is how it should be. Even if they still fight, they should be able to share more of these moments; perhaps inconsequential in the long run, but terribly benevolent and sweet. Some of life's great treasures.

He and Arthur walk in silence, the sounds of the hustle and bustle of London washing over them. A bus passes by, rumbling loudly, and other pedestrians pass, rushing to wherever they need to be. Francis thinks that they should slow down. Stop and smell the roses, as it were.

He wonders what they learnt; what Emma attempted to teach them. There has to be some moral to the story of their past months, right? So what is it? What did all of those "compromises" teach them, aside from the obvious? Francis ponders the topic, and it's not until they've reached the entrance to the station that it hits him.

"We stopped trying to change each other," he blurts, and Arthur turns to him with a questioning look in his eyes.

"Pardon?"

"What we learnt from Emma's compromises. We stopped trying to change each other," Francis explains.

Arthur quirks an eyebrow, and then a half-smile cracks his lips. "So we did."

They enter the station, and they both rummage around their pockets for their Oyster cards before proceeding through. There's a beep as Arthur taps his on the scanner, and another as Francis does the same. Luckily, it's not rush hour, so the station is fairly empty, and no one is trying to get them to go through more quickly.

"I want you to know, Frog," Arthur quips once they're through and heading to their platform, "that doesn't mean I'm going to stop teasing you for the weird things you do."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, _chou."_

"I am _not_ a cabbage!"

* * *

 **Hey!  
**

 **This fic didn't quite turn out the way I wanted it to, and it took me so long to write (I'm so so _so_ sorry, Ella!), but at least I finished it, I suppose. It felt rushed, and there was a bit too much fluff, but oh well. Also, yes, I did spend an hour doing the calligraphy for the cover photo. Honestly, what is my life?  
**

 **This is my part of an exchange with _EllaAwkward_! (#makeellaameme2k17 lmao) It's based on a prompt that they gave me, "Arthur and Francis are forced to make compromises for each other. For example, Arthur gets his eyebrows tweezed, and Francis shaves his beard. Arthur gets to cook two nights a week (much to Francis's horror for the sake of his pride), while Francis gets to choose Arthur's outfits...etc. The one-shot is shows them falling through with these promises!" Sorry that I didn't really add very much to the "etc." I'm not very creative lol  
**

 **Check out _EllaAwkward_ 's half of our exchange, called "Just a Tat Too Much"! It's about Punk! Arthur, who runs a tattoo parlor, and Francis who runs a florist's next door! It's absolutely brilliant, and you should definitely go read it! ;) Actually, they're just kind of a fantastic writer and person in general, and you should read their other stories, too. Honestly, they're really amazing (if you like comedy and great characterization, that's the place to go!) I promise you won't regret it.  
**

 **Sorry for being gone so long! The next chapter of _It Might Have Been_ will be published next, so stay tuned! Thanks so much for reading!  
**


End file.
